Not the One
by Havoc
Summary: Spike's obsession with Buffy spirals out of control. CAUTION: character death and allusions to rape.


Not The One

_It is a cruel gift that you have given me. For you have set me apart from my own kind, and destroyed the pleasure of my old joys; my soul is marked with this love, though I do not understand what it is, and, like you, I shall never be able to return to what I have been._

_Dragonsbane Barbara Hambly_

Not right. This was not right. Now that the hungry lust had left him, now that smell of blood was going stale and old, now that the killing headache had ebbed from his brain, he was realizing that something was wrong.

What could be wrong? What was that thought that was niggling at the back of his mind, tickling the few brain cells he had that weren't wrapped up in the ecstasy that was the woman dying in his arms? It was so hard to think after the headaches, so hard to concentrate. And yet the pain wasn't what it once was. Since Buffy had left, there was no pain that could equal the one that she had dealt him.

This night had all started out so right, it had all been so perfect. He had followed the blond who had been brave enough to walk alone in the dark, had tracked the movement of her sunlight colored hair, the subtle swing of her hips as she strode with confidence down the empty streets. He wanted her then, without even seeing her face. He had known her, had felt the knowledge of her in his blood like some kind of an addiction.

This was Buffy. After all the searching, all the hunting, he had found her again and could make her his. The smell of her was like some sort of beautiful and delightful poison. Breathing it again was like living again. He was almost dizzy with the thought of being with her again, was delirious at the idea that he could be wrapped in her body again. He had almost forgotten the slick, sliding feel that was hers and hers alone. There had never been anybody like her, would never be anybody like her again. He had never thought he could be lonely like this, never thought that sorrow could eat you alive like this. Without her, he felt destroyed, lost, empty. All he wanted her to feel was found again, feel like he did when he was with her. He had wanted that sense of completion again, had needed it like he had never needed anything before.

When he had grabbed her, when she had fought, he could feel himself come alive again, could feel the years of pain fly from his body like the wind. The best times had always come after she had fought. And he needed her again, like he had always needed her. She was still fighting when he sank deep into her body.

Even when he bite her, even when the chip flared into active life again, staggering him, stilling him, he didn't care. Buffy had always hurt him, had always brought him just the perfect amount of pain. It didn't matter that there was pain, the agony was what he needed to feel complete.

But now that he was in her, now that he had drunk his fill, something wasn't right. It had been over a century since he had drank a slayer's blood, but this didn't taste right. There was no kick, no burning jump in his body that let him know that he had done the impossible yet again. If she was a slayer, why didn't she taste right? Why was she dead around him, under him? Why was she going cold all around him? The slayer doesn't die. Not Buffy, never Buffy! She had died twice already, it had never gotten the best of her.

Shrieking his rage, he grabbed at the chill, stiff body underneath him, hitting her, wrecking the weak shell that had dyed beneath him.

"You always die! You always die! Stop dying!" Her body flopped lifelessly under his raging fists, not even enough blood left to spill out when his nails scratched deep into her skin. He hated that she never fought back, hated the she just let him hurt her like this. It wasn't right; it wasn't hurt. And that change, that difference, made him all the more angry. She needed to pay, she owed him for what she had done to him. He pounded at her, kicked her, felt her bones crunch under his strength. He wanted to destroy her, wanted to demolish her, to punish her for dying, for betraying him, for leaving him. She always left him. There was no image in his mind as clear as the way she had looked when she had walked away from him that last time. If she couldn't be his, she couldn't be anything. She couldn't even be this useless corpse on the ground. If he pushed her hard enough, hit her hard enough, she would be gone, she would be nothing but a smear on the ground. She would be nothing, like she had always been nothing.

"This is your fault, your fault! If you had just stayed, if you had just loved me like you were supposed to, if you had just loved me like I loved you, none of this would have happened. Why did you leave me? Why did you go? I loved you, I loved you! Can't you understand that? Why do you make me do this to you over and over again? Why couldn't you just have loved me? I don't want to hurt you Buffy, but you make me. You keep making me hurt you."

Her body destroyed, broken, he flipped her over, focused on her face, on Buffy's beautiful face, the face that had been haunting him for years. He couldn't sleep without seeing her, he couldn't be awake without seeing her. She was in front of his eyes always, a ghost, a shadow on his vision that would never leave. It had been years since he had been able to look into her eyes. He had been waiting for thousands of days, each hour of each day a separate and pure hell that would never leave him. If he could just see her eyes again, he would be at peace. He would be free of her, free of her hold on him.

It wasn't Buffy. He looked at that face, the face he had destroyed, and it wasn't Buffy. It wasn't Buffy again. It was never Buffy. The rage spiraled up inside of him suddenly, fresh, new, a a rippling fire in his blood. His howl of pain and rage ripped the very air in two, split heaven from earth and tossed him into hell again. It was never her. He could never understand if he was supposed to weep now, or laugh, or just get up and go on his way, wiping her cold blood from his body. Each time it was different, each time it was new. Each time it was like it had never happened before. There were no names for the emotions that he felt, no name for the feelings that were swirling around inside of him. Which was her fault, just like everything now was her fault. This rage, this anger, this storm of destruction, it was all on her. "Save the blood world now, Buffy!" he screamed, ranting at the corpse, raving now, the anger in control. "Save it now, save it from me! I'll kill a thousand women if it just brought you back to me, if you just understood what it was that you meant to me. I'll kill them, I swear I'll kill them if you don't come back to me."

He hated that sound in his voice, the weak, needy sound, the way his voice ripped out of throat like he was begging her. Why did she make him do this? He couldn't stand how she made him feel so frail, so fragile.

"Spike."

There, that was a familiar voice, that was a woman he knew. He looked up, hopeful. She had come, he had called and she had come, just like he had always known that she would. She had come. At once, the rage stilled, everything calmed. The last few hours, the hours where he had tried and failed to make Buffy his again, they were all gone, all lost in the joy that was her reappearance. She had come. His eyes searched into the dark where her voice had come from. It was always her voice. She had been calling him for years, a siren song, but when he found her, it was never her. Bitch. But this was her, he knew it was her. This was a voice that he knew.

It wasn't Buffy. For a few moments, he almost couldn't bring the face to memory. Everything in his mind now was only divided into two simple categories. There was Buffy and there was not-Buffy and this was, yet again, not Buffy. But the memory was drifting just under his thought and slowly it came to him.

"Willow?" he tried and was almost relieved when she nodded. Maybe there could be a new category, an almost-Buffy category. She was almost familiar to him.

The woman stared at him, gentle, reassuring. "That's right, Spike. It's me. Willow."

"You're not Buffy."

She shook her head. "No, I've never been Buffy."

He gestured at the body littering the ground, confused, unsure again. "She's not Buffy either."

Willow shook her head. "No, she's never been Buffy either."

Maybe she knew, maybe Willow knew. From some deep recess of memory, he recalled her as being the one with the answers. She must know. "Where's Buffy? "The words came out plaintive, almost lost. He missed his Buffy. Everything would be all right if he could just have her back.

"She's dead," Willow said gently, sadly. "You killed her. Don't you remember?"

He shook his head. "Not Buffy. Buffy doesn't die. She never dies. I killed her, this one. I killed this one. She's not Buffy."

"You killed Buffy first. You killed her years ago. And you're still killing her. You need to stop."

When he spoke again, his voice was petulant, a child that couldn't get his way. "If she would just come back, I wouldn't have to keep killing her. I could stop. If she would just love me."

Willow ignored him, intent on her own conversation. "They're calling you a serial killer on the news, Spike. The way you keep going after these small, defenseless, young blond women. The police don't know what you are, they only know what you do. They can't stop you."

"It's her fault. She left me. Why won't she just come back?" He was crying now, empty without her. The anger was gone now, all gone, and he was only empty and lost. "Willow, why won't she come back?

Willow tried to smile, but it looked wrong on her face. "I can help you find her, Spike. If you just come here, I can help you find her."

"You can help?" He came to her like a child, eager, desperate. "You'll help? I just need her, Willow. I always need her."

Her arms wrapped around him, almost gentle, almost in love. "I'll help, Spike." He felt something against his back, sharp and insistent. "You see, Spike. I do know what you are. And I can stop you."

"I love her," he whispered. No one had ever understood how much he loved her. No one understood what that love had done to him, how it had damned him, when he thought he beyond such petty retributions of justice.

"I know. And you'll see her again." There was pain then, sudden and sharp, almost as bad as the pain that had been when Buffy broke his heart, when she had walked away.

And then he was dust at Willow's feet. She felt no joy at his death, only deep and abiding sorrow. He had almost been a friend, he had almost been human again in those few months when Buffy had given herself to him. The police would never know that Spike had been the serial killer they had been hunting for months, would never know why the killings had stopped. That didn't matter, it only mattered that it was over. She stared down at the discarded body, Spike's last victim. "No, you weren't Buffy either."

She picked up the stake and walked back to her car, the sorrow washing over her again. It was never Buffy. Thanks to Spike, it would never be Buffy again.

_He would like not to kill. He would like  
what he imagines other men have,  
instead of this red compulsion. Why do the woman  
fail him and die badly?_

_The Robber Bridegroom Magaret Atwood_


End file.
